Eyes
by Autumn Moon Fae
Summary: "All she sees are Gwaine's pain-filled eyes looking up, trying to find Elyan's face and meeting hers." A small act may be the first step on a path to redemption. They come as close to sharing the storm of indecision they feel for each other as they can. People are not always what they seem, after all, and once it was she breathing those quick, panicked breaths, broken.


**A/N: Morgana/Gwaine (Morwaine) is one of my top three OTPs of all time (the others being Pepperony and Eowyn/Faramir). I've wanted to put something together for them for a while now...and tried to reconcile the fact that she beat him up and starved his friends with my fantasized Morwaine love. This is born from the sudden revelation that Morgana could have watched Elyan, Gwaine and Gaius in the cell from the grate used in 3x13 (with Leon and Gwen), as well as Baje Barra's awesome story "Have Been and Could Be". **

**Most/all of this is from Morgana's point of view, though she's only _referred_ to as Morgana in the last scene.**

**This is sort of a compilation of oneshots/very short things leading up to the scene at the ending. Read and enjoy Morwaine. It is beautiful, no?**

**oOo**

**Eyes**

Have they forgotten?

Yes.

Yes, of course they have.

* * *

The dark-haired woman closes her eyes. For once what lies behind her eyelids is better than what's in front of them.

* * *

All a swirl of movement, noise that she can't hear above the sound raging in her ears. She's used to it by now. It seems so long ago that her breath caught with every stroke, that her blood pounded in her ears. But it wasn't – was it?

Now her breathing's even. In, out. She could be sleeping.

There isn't much that can shock her anymore.

* * *

A small part of her speaks up. It sounds half Morgause and half Uther.

"This isn't healthy."

Mostly Uther then.

The woman's eyes meet the half-wild witch in the mirror.

"No," she says. Her reflection is defiant. "It isn't."

She's going anyway.

* * *

The woman tucks her knees into her chest. She feels warm inside – in her stomach, behind her green eyes. Odd. She hasn't felt that way in years.

She's gotten over the stage where she glanced at the door for Gwen. That doesn't happen anymore. The woman rubs her shoulders and resists the temptation that just this once the maid will be there. She's not going to be.

Through the grate she sees them. Him.

* * *

She's not guilty.

They ruined her life. She's perfectly capable of ruining theirs.

There's a tiny part of her that talks in Gwen's voice late at night when she's trying to go to sleep. When she lets herself indulge in a moment of weakness, she makes herself mint tea.

It doesn't taste the same as it did when Gwen made it.

Her voice comes out of the darkness inside her head, and it tells her what her cold, analytical mind already knows.

_He'll dream about this the rest of his life. He won't hold a sword without shaking for at least a month. You know how it is to try to patch up your cracks with arrogance, and you know it won't work. There's potential claustrophobia to be considered. Flashbacks. _

_You think that this is your justice. You think you know what this means._

_What you know is no more than the beginning of what he is going to feel._

But Gwen doesn't say this.

Gwen just looks up at her with tears in her warm eyes and shakes her head.

* * *

Brown eyes.

Morgause had brown eyes. Gwen had brown eyes.

So does he. She can't take her own, pale eyes off of them.

She smirks at the irony. She's not going to acknowledge it.

* * *

_Gwaine. So handsome. So selfless._

It goes on, until she's actually impressed. Actually wanting him to win.

She knew a little about the mess his life had been before Camelot. It made her confused. Almost jealous.

Her life became irreparable. She couldn't fix it.

Why Gwaine and not her?

* * *

She decided that people are irreparable. Gwen was. Arthur is. …Merlin is. She is.

Gwaine will be.

She keeps the previous versions of themselves in her head, with a few changes – they love her, and they always have her back, and they can't break.

It's a nostalgic way to live, she guesses. She doesn't see it like that.

Wouldn't it be nostalgic if she had no one to talk to?

* * *

There's one night when she isn't there. She's sleeping.

That's the night with the dream.

* * *

Uther is standing on the battlements. Below him is a man on a pyre, and somehow she knows that this man _means_ something to her. That he can't, can't die.

He looks up, straight at her. His eyes are brown, and wide.

Uther's hand falls.

But this time she doesn't turn to the window, she doesn't look away. She's transfixed, hypnotized by the flames licking up around the man in the fire. He can't hold her eyes, his head's tilted back and his dark hair is falling over his shoulders. He's staring at the sky. For some reason she feels like a letdown. Like she should have held his eyes. Given him something to hold onto. She doesn't remember that she didn't hold the brown eyes of Gwen and Morgause, but she feels it.

There's the oddest thing happening to her. She has the swooping feeling in her stomach as if she's falling out of the window to be in the fire with this man. She can see the way she would fall in her head. All she can think is that she's letting him burn alone and he can't, can't die.

There are more of them. She can see them now, from where she stands, caught in the act, at the window. Druids, peasants, soldiers, ladies, Gorlois, Tom…

And herself.

She sees it like a reflection on fog. It's a girl with black hair falling out of its bun, wearing a simple grey-blue peasant's shirt, holding a sword. Turning to smile, laughing. Actually smile.

_They always did say that she should smile more often._

These are Uther's kills.

And then she's beside Uther, smiling at him with no teeth. The crown's on her head.

Her hand falls.

So many of them.

Women, children. The woman who sold cloth at the marketplace. The boy the kitchen girl swoons over. Knights. Guards. Uther. Morgause.

Oh, and there are more.

Beyond them spread out others, people she never harmed but hate her. People who know what she's done. And beyond them are the people who know what she is.

And then the people she's ruined. The people who will never be the same.

These ones hurt the most.

Arthur. Merlin. Gwaine. Uther. Elyan. Gwen. Leon. Gaius. Agravaine. Lancelot.

On the battlements it seems so easy to just fall. Fall into the chaos. Make it better. Cry.

She can't. She can't she can't she can't.

* * *

It's sort of like having a pet. When she wakes up she has to know that they're alive.

She watches them through the grate she used to spy on Gwen when she first betrayed her. She doesn't see the irony.

Gwaine's not there.

Her heart skips a beat. Her chest tightens up and she can't breathe.

He should be back by now. He should have been back _ages _ago.

She watches Elyan give Gaius all the water and keep glancing at the bars.

If she didn't feel exactly the same way she would probably suspect him of something.

* * *

They throw him in after what seems like eternity, and the tightness in her chest feels worse, not better.

He looks like hell.

Elyan doesn't even bother to glare after the Southrons, he drops to his knees on the stone by Gwaine and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Gwaine. _Gwaine._"

He makes an effort to lift his head. "'Mfine."

The other knight gives a little snort of laughter and tries to smile. "Damn it Gwaine."

He still manages his trademark grin. If it's slightly off-centre and his eyes are a little wider than usual, no one makes comment. "I think you mean 'thank God', huh?"

Elyan smiles. "Yeah, we were all hoping you'd just –" He stops. She sees it too, the bandage on his chest ripped open by the sudden movement and the blood seeping out.

"Oh my God."

Gwaine's eyelids are fluttering, open and closed.

"Hold on. Gwaine."

He looks up, but can't focus. For a moment she thinks his eyes meet hers. "It hurts."

* * *

"What happened?"

He's sitting folded up against the wall, head flipped back, but she doesn't miss how he jerks upright in panic at the sudden noise.

"Huh?"

"No Morgana this time."

She's alert, hanging on to every word.

He shrugs. Grimaces. "I do prefer Morgana to Helios."

Elyan tilts his head at him. "Why?"

Another shrug.

* * *

She stays there, curled up in her scratchy black cloak, most of the night. Helios doesn't know where she is. Most of them don't sleep. Gaius does, but Gwaine and Elyan just sit across from each other.

She used to be like that once. Too scared to sleep because of what it might bring. So nervous she couldn't sleep even if she tried.

Not anymore.

She dreamed about him. She couldn't help. She couldn't do anything.

As her eyes flash gold and his broken ribs slide into place, she wonders what happened with Helios.

* * *

Then there's the fight.

The one fight he loses, maybe the one fight he's ever lost.

She's not focused. All she hears is the noise, swimming in formless ripples around the shapes in the ring. All she sees are Gwaine's pain-filled eyes looking up, trying to find Elyan's face and meeting hers.

* * *

The sound rises, swells until it reaches her ears.

She twitches alert.

He's on the ground. They're holding him down.

It takes her a moment to recognize the emotion raging at the walls of her skin.

Horror.

* * *

"So what'll it be, redcape?" The Southron – he's not her guard, he was never her guard – makes a slashing motion over his knuckles that makes her catch her breath. "Your fingers –" the jagged knife is poised to strike, already falling above his pale face "– or your eyes?"

He kicks him. Five days ago it would have worked, but now it does nothing. She's let him grow weak. These men – Helios' men – have waited for this moment too long to let it slip. They admire him, perhaps, but they hate him more. He makes them look bad. He eats barely anything, has about five major injuries, would be bedridden anywhere else, and still beats them. Hopelessly outnumbered, but not outmatched, he beats them.

The stark truth of the matter falls onto her like a load of rock.

She wants revenge on Uther.

She wants to _take_ revenge on Arthur.

She takes revenge on Gwaine.

Leverage. It's all about leverage. Leverage and love.

He wrenches his arm away and twists the man's, catching the knife that falls out of his now-slack grip. She admires his movements, though she won't admit it.

The jagged blade's buried to the hilt in the Southron's chest.

There was no hesitation.

She watches him try to scramble to his feet and get yanked down again. There are too many of them. She feels in her chest the slow-motion, transfixed knowledge that he won't be getting back up.

His breathing is heavy, fast. He's panicking, and he has good reason to. Someone growls "Hold his arms" and he can't _move_. It's not a fight anymore, they're beating him senseless in front of her and she hears those quick, gasping breaths in her ears.

Suddenly she's alone in the room, on the fine carpet with blue silk pooling around her feet, the soft kiss of smooth hair on her shoulders. Her chest rising and falling as she tries to force air into lungs that won't respond. She can't breathe. Her eyes are wide with betrayal, pain. Where's Merlin? She pushes his hands away with arms that have no strength.

_She can't breathe._

* * *

Morgana stands. The movement's abrupt and at first they don't notice. She mock-clears her throat. It's a mask and a hateful one, but if it hides the white terror around her eyes it will do for now.

She smiles flirtatiously at the Southrons. "Now, now. If he's in no state to fight what use will he have?" He was already in no state to fight. He was in no state to fight five days ago.

"And," she imitates dismay, "Gaius would starve and Elyan," Morgana smirks, "the noble Elyan," Laughter. "would die. What a pity that would be." Gwaine's crumpled on the ground. He doesn't open his eyes.

He doesn't move at all.

What was she waiting for, anyway, gratitude? Trust? "We couldn't have that." Morgana surveys the room with her impassioned, almost insane eyes, eyes full of the madness of power, and looks to the side. Head tilted, she speaks out of the corner of her mouth, conspiratorially, to the Southrons. "Why don't you leave the room?"

What does she care what they think of her?

Morgana steps carefully back from Gwaine's body when the doors are closed, locked. She moves as if every sound she makes is blasphemy, as if she carries a great wound. She lowers herself gently onto the throne, shoulders slumped.

There's such a difference to watching from the grate and being in the same room with him. _Actually_ being in the same room. Almost on the same side.

She swallows. For some reason she thinks she might cry.

She won't.

"Say something."

He opens his eyes, raises an eyebrow.

"I only speak to people I have things to say to."

"Oh, and you have nothing to say to me?"

For the first time he looks at her, into her. Morgana feels like a two-way channel has opened up between their eyes, feels the raw emotions, the pain, the force of understanding.

_I know what you've done to me. I'm not going to thank you. I don't know who you are. I think maybe once you were a good person. Once._

_I know what I've done to you. I know I've turned you into something as damaged as me. I regret it. I almost regret it. It took me watching other people hurting you for me to realize it._

_Normal people don't do the things I've done. People with honour. Arthur. Lancelot. They wouldn't let a small thing like fate stop them from saving people's lives. They wouldn't let a small thing like fate make them kill. I may have rough loyalty but I am no knight. I'm weaker than them. Weaker than Elyan, even if I used to think that I could have endured torture. I can't think that anymore. You may not know it yet, but you've broken me._

_I never thought I could put the pieces back together. I was jealous, almost, that you could. When I realize you never really did it hurts. There really is no way out then. There really is only one path, and I'm racing towards the end of it. I was better than this. I fought for righteousness, revenge. Not now. Now, I don't care what people think of me as long as they do think of me – in their nightmares. Now, I don't care what I fight for as long as I'm still fighting._

* * *

_I look at you, and I see myself._


End file.
